the beekeeper.

azazel.

i see him,
standing foolishly in the dark corridor,
enveloped in a crimson halo
like he were dipped in blood.
if he were, it would be lamb's:
virgin pure, delicate, worthy.
and he, in his tasteless manner, holds his hands in front of him
presenting his palms to himself
or perhaps to god.
they're dirty; they reek of sin.

iron floods my senses—the taste, the scent.
who has he murdered?
who has he harmed?

he places those hands on his cheeks.
they leave charcoal stains against his skin.
he looks to the blackness about him,
then veers those yellow eyes upwards,
thrusts his vision above,
staring straight into that heavenly domain so hidden from him.
for a moment, i question:
what are the circumstances?
he seems cast away from paradise for murder,
and yet i recognize no evil in those eyes.

that's when i see the source.
it comes from his chest,
oozing,
flowing,
and his horns curve like a ram,
and his eyes begin to water.

this creature is no murderer;
he is a martyr.